


Queen's Guard

by brigitttt



Series: Captive Prince Kink Bingo [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: (but it's like. barely noticeable lol), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boot Worship, F/F, Face-Sitting, Frottage, Lesbian AU, Marking, Modern Royalty, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rule 63, Uniform Kink, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 07:26:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17421611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brigitttt/pseuds/brigitttt
Summary: Damia is part of Queen Augusta's Guard, Laurence is horny for it 24/7





	Queen's Guard

**Author's Note:**

> big thank you to Jay/thatgothlibrarian !! and also to the lovely people on the discord/planning the bingo!

Laurence always tries to make it seem like she never knows the exact schedule of the morning guard procession. She only watches it a couple days of the week, and on those days she’ll wait until half-past to leave her suite, and stop by the residence wing kitchens to get a muffin and maybe a mug of tea. Then she’ll saunter over to the East study in time to catch the last three quarters of the parade sequences; the room has a set of windows that look through the breezeway and onto the main courtyard, and Laurence knows, through careful observation, that the particular angle of the sun at the time of the procession renders her practically invisible through the glass.

The official reason for the infrequency and subtlety of these actions is that there is a special public tour of the palace, timed so that the group of tourists can pause for the 12 minutes or so it takes for the palace guards to do their display. Visitors are not allowed to record or take pictures of the rest of the palace, but this one morning tour allows them to whip their phones and cameras out to film and Instagram and tweet about how amazing the royal Artesian guards look, how syncopated, how classy. Laurence would absolutely despise being caught in one of these pictures, so she stays in the East study and looks around the columns of the breezeway for her view. Laurence leaves precisely ninety seconds before it ends, so that she has enough time to traverse the hallways to the library before the guards on procession duty that day filter back through the palace to their next posts.

The unofficial reason for all this is so that she doesn’t get caught gaping at Damia.

#

“Laurence! I know you’re in here!” Augusta’s voice beams through the bookcases Laurence is sitting behind. She hears her sister’s sharp, quick steps down the parquet floors and adjusts her posture at the reading table just in time for Augusta’s body to follow her voice around the corner.

“I can’t stay for long, but I had to make sure you knew,” she says, breathlessly genial. Laurence looks up to see her sister, grinning and regal, and fully intends to listen to whatever she says next, but then Damia is rounding the corner of the bookcase as well, and – she looks radiant, as always, her hair pulled back in its usual braid but losing little of its volume, her full, dark eyebrows and perfect nose and oh, her adorable dimple. She’s of course not wearing the navy blue, formal full dress procession uniform, it wasn’t her shift today, but she is wearing the dark wine-red colours of her former regiment in the south of Artes, with gleaming gold buttons and brocade lacing, a black officer belt crossing her broad chest. Pale, cream-coloured trousers hug her hips and thighs and tuck into knee-high boots, and Laurence briefly imagines stroking her hands down them to feel both the soft material and the shape of the muscles underneath. Augusta clears her throat.

“Pardon?” says Laurence, whipping her eyes back to her sister, willing her cheeks not to blush.

“I was asking if you had found the book I had loaned for you from the university? The one with ancient Akielon translations,” she says, a quirk to her lips. Laurence furrows her eyebrows to gain some semblance of control. She unthinkingly flicks her eyes to Damia, who is currently pursing her lips together and staring determinedly at some unknown horizon between the table and the floor. Her left hand is casually draped over the loop in her waist-belt where her scabbard would go. 

“No, I’ll see if the head librarian put it in the, um, the rare books reading room,” says Laurence, eyes accidentally meeting with the dark, angry mark on Damia’s neck, barely visible over the high collar of her uniform coat. She quickly looks away. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” says Augusta with a smile. “I hope you enjoy it. Oh, and don’t worry about the due date; turns out that when the Queen of Artes requests a book to be loaned to her royal library they nearly fall over themselves to give it to her,” she says with a laugh. Laurence watches her sister spin and stride back the way she came. Damia waits respectfully until she passes to follow behind, but not before training her searing gaze on Laurence, arching an eyebrow and unpursing her heavenly lips. She’s gone in an instant, and Laurence sags against the back of the chair again, closing her eyes and squeezing her legs together. 

#

Augusta is a new queen, and a modern one, and it is no more conspicuous than when her royal guard is on full display, as they are now, at the state dinner the palace is holding for Patran delegates. Augusta had been particular about choosing an all-women team, even asking Laurence for help in planning it all before she ascended. Aside from the palace morning procession suit, there is no standard uniform for the queen’s guard; instead, each woman wears the regimental uniform of their home province, resulting in a range of colours of coat and lacings. Those from the south, including Damia’s, tend towards redder tones and paler trousers, while central provincial garb favours neutral greens and browns. Northern Artesian uniforms are usually a variety of blues, with darker trousers and facings. The image of it is spectacular, and Augusta’s vision of a diverse yet unified Artes shines brilliantly.

Laurence could not be more proud of both her sister and her own part in advising for it. She only wishes that she could witness it outside of supremely uninteresting events.

It’s late already though, past the official handshakes, the speeches, the formal dinner. It’s also past the time when the press were escorted out, so the dignitaries are a little looser in the ballroom, schmoozing and drinking. Laurence is trying to wait it out until the socially acceptable hour to retire, as princess of the host country. She catches a glimpse of Prince Torveld through the crowd, and curses under her breath as he approaches; she had permitted her own guard, Lazar, to carouse with Pallas of the queen’s guard earlier and hasn’t seen either of them since, so she does the next best thing.  
“My apologies, Your Highness,” says Laurence as soon as he’s within hearing distance. She adopts a politely pained expression and gently lifts a hand to her temple. “I am about to retire with a terrible migraine, if you’ll excuse me.” 

It works. “Of course, Your Highness,” he says with a smile, but he’s too good-natured. “Do you require assistance? I can accompany you back to your rooms?” He sounds too hopeful for Laurence’s comfort. Then she sees her chance.

“That’s very gracious of you, sir, but –” and Laurence starts walking in the direction of Damia, who is standing near the wall a couple metres away. “My guard is able to escort me. Thank you for your offer, we’ll talk at the luncheon tomorrow.” She’s already turning away by the end of her sentence, and doesn’t bother listening to his overly formal farewell. She doesn’t feel bad for lying about Damia’s position as her own guard, and at the same time it sends a little thrill through her stomach to think of it. 

Damia jumps slightly when Laurence claps her hand down on her arm. “You’re escorting me and my migraine back to my rooms,” she says, no room for discussion, as if Damia would’ve really argued against this, though; she may not be her guard but Laurence is still the Princess of Artes. Damia only pinches her brows together in concern and follows Laurence out of the ballroom.

The walk back through the halls is quiet, and maybe Laurence is just making up the tension she feels around them both, but a sense of eagerness and anticipation urges her on towards the residential wing. Damia’s solid presence behind her anchors Laurence down, helps make her breathe, and she decides she wants more than just an escape from the event right now.

There’s no argument either when Laurent pulls Damia through her suite door and locks it behind them, only a confused smile and an “I thought you said you had a migraine,” until Laurence swings her around in front of herself with ease, trapping a gladly willing Damia against the bedpost. Damia’s hands fall naturally at Laurent’s waist and she’s reminded of the dress she has on, how she hates it, wishes she wore the jumpsuit instead of what Augusta told her to. She flips this annoyance on its head and drags Damia down into a scalding kiss.

Damia makes a very encouraging noise and clutches at her, gloved hands coming around her back. Laurence feels the weight of Damia’s chest under her hands, the shoulder-belt digging into her palm, and breathes heavily through her nose, then her mouth when it opens to let Damia’s tongue inside. Leaning hard against Damia, Laurence smooths a hand up across her chest to tangle in her hair, near the scalp where her bun gathers at the back. Damia’s uniform cap must have fallen off somewhere but Laurence’s fingers find the tie to let her hair down anyway, and then drag through the curls, catching on tangles that make Damia moan and hold her tighter. 

They part, heaving, and Laurence can only see Damia’s dark eyes and beautifully full lips, reddening slightly after their kissing. Laurence slides a hand down in between them, across the bumps of the heavy brocade lacing towards where the shoulder-belt attaches to the waist one, unclipping it onehanded. Damia closes her eyes and leans down to mouth at Laurence’s neck, making her hand fumble as she tries to undo the waist belt, but then suddenly the hands around her back remove themselves. The lips on her neck follow shortly, and Laurence squints open her eyes to see Damia removing her belt with more care, because – right, she’d been wearing her sword and scabbard tonight. Laurence pulls back, eyes sharp, and kicks off her shoes and undoes the top of her dress while Damia strides over to place the sword and accompanying tangle of leather on a nearby table. It’s good thinking, something Laurence would definitely not have remembered in this state.

Damia’s eyes widen when she turns back around, and Laurence realizes how she must look, the bottom half of her dress still gathering at her waist, waiting for the side zip to be undone, the gauzy top of it hanging down overtop like a second skirt. She’s not endowed enough to need a bra with this breezy kind of material. Laurence must manage a sufficiently sultry look because Damia is the one pressing her against the bed post now, running her thumbs over the small buds of her nipples. Except she hasn’t taken her gloves off; Laurence bites her lip down on a moan at the feeling of the cotton running back and forth on her skin, feels herself become wet at the rough pleasure of it.

Damia swings her hair over one shoulder and returns to Laurence’s mouth, and once she’s regained enough control, Laurence grips onto the high collar of her coat, moving slowly to the front to undo each large gold button. She steadily works her way down to the bottom, but she hopes it’s clear that she doesn’t want Damia to shrug the whole thing off entirely. There’s her thin undershirt beneath, too, but its smaller, more finicky buttons require more of Laurence’s attention. Damia obligingly leans back, leaving a hot hand on Laurence’s hip, and it’s only once the shirt is finished that Laurence looks up to see the almost completely faded mark on the side of Damia’s neck. Distractedly, Laurence reaches up and digs her pointer finger into it, watching Damia wince and open her eyelids like they’re the heaviest thing in the world.

“Thanks for that, by the way,” Damia says hoarsely, quietly, into the air without any malice. Laurence hums and lightens her touch, but still strokes over the bruise. She shifts her stance as Damia slides a thick thigh in between her own. “Orlant called me out on it, during Wednesday’s workout. Asked about – hnnn,” she hisses lowly again at Laurence’s sharp finger. “About where I found the time off to find someone to give it to me.” Damia’s breathing heavier now, her mouth open slightly.

Laurence’s mind is stuck on the image of Damia in nothing but a sports bra and compression shorts, gleaming with sweat and showing off every gorgeous muscle, moving so strongly and powerfully that nothing can stand in her way. She feels suddenly very hot, imagining the same scene but with Damia’s uniform boots instead of gym shoes. A hot spark jolts through her core at the thought.

“Tell Orlant to mind her own business,” Laurence says inattentively, already shifting her focus, guiding Damia to spin back against the post. She drops to her knees before Damia can reply, the material of her dress bunching under her as she leans over, hands reaching for one of Damia’s calves. 

Laurence has admired Damia’s boots before, from afar and in her own imagination, how well they conform to her lower legs and solidify her stance at attention. She always thought they were black, but now she’s up close she can see how the dark tan of the leather comes through. A stroke down the side by the zipper reveals how robust they are around Damia’s calf muscle, and also how smooth and surprisingly soft the leather is. Without another thought, Laurence shifts forward more and opens her mouth, running her tongue all the way along the side of the laces on the front, from the beginning at the top of Damia’s foot to where the panel ends, just below her knee. Laurence peers up along the rest of Damia’s leg to meet her eyes.

She’s gripping the bed post behind her tightly with both hands, and her cheeks and what Laurence can see of her chest are flushed in splotchy patches, almost approaching the colour of her uniform coat. She looks ravishing to Laurence, and she wants to touch her everywhere, rub her own body all over Damia’s, crawl inside of her uniform and sit there, sated but still craving, tight together.

Damia lets out a loud, shaky breath and tilts her head back, and so Laurence shifts to straddle one of her feet, and runs both hands up the silky material of her trousers, stopping just below where Damia probably wants them, and back down. Laurence likes sitting here more than she thought she would, and carefully grinds down on the laces of Damia’s boot. She feels her own wetness against the material of her underwear and huffs at the sensation of it, caressing the thick thigh in front of her, mouthing messily on the muscle of it, tasting nothing but the soft cloth. 

Damia groans so deliciously when Laurence soothes her hand in the crease of her upper thigh that she rewards her with a deliberate stroke over the centre seam of her trousers, pressing down on Damia through the fabric. Damia moves her hips into the touch, and a hand blearily drifts from behind her back to hold onto Laurence’s head. Laurence trails her hand back down and stands up.

Damia watches from her slouch against the post with hazy eyes as Laurence takes her dress the rest of the way off, and steps out of her underwear. It’s not until she holds out a hand that Damia follows her on top of the bed; Laurence is reminded of the way Damia follows Augusta around, giving way to her, standing vigilant at doorways, hands held behind her back in parade rest. She’s let Laurence lead nearly every encounter they’ve had, since the first time Laurence had kissed her. Damia has accepted every kiss thereafter, every mark on her neck, no matter how visible with her uniform, every touch Laurence takes, and everything she gives. 

Even now, sitting upright with one leg still over the side of the bed, Damia lets Laurence undo each hook of her thankfully front-clasping bra, pull apart the sides of her coat, and untuck the undershirt from her trousers to make space for her hands. Laurence moves forward again to bite a mark onto the full swell of one breast, close to the nipple, pushing and cupping it in her hand, feeling the weight of it under her lips and teeth. It’s this that turns Laurence on maybe more than just the experience of Damia’s body in general: the way that Damia succumbs to each ministration that says, silently and corporeally, that this trusting beauty belongs to her. As much as she likes leaving marks that others can see, Laurence likes the ones that only they two know about.

“Lay back,” Laurence whispers, because she knows she doesn’t really need to say anything, that the light push on Damia’s shoulders will have her dropping down easily. She realises suddenly that she’s fully naked, while Damia still has her full trousers and boots on, shirt and coat on her arms. This is more than fine though, tantalising, even, and Laurence picks up one of Damia’s hands to brace herself with as she turns around to straddle Damia’s head, hovering over her face and looking down the length of her body. Laurence makes awkward eye contact from this angle, but it’s enough to see how interested Damia still looks in this position, her mouth already opening as Laurence settles lower, a broad hand supporting her underneath one thigh, the other hand resting on top of Laurence’s other. Her knees are spread wide to accommodate Damia’s broad shoulders, but it’s otherwise a comfortable position, one made exquisitely more so at the first touch of tongue against Laurence’s lips.

She closes her eyes in ecstasy at the sensation; Damia is so talented at this, and Laurence so rarely returns the favour. She would feel guilty if it felt more like anything Damia would complain about, though. It seems that just from pleasuring Laurence in this way, Damia winds herself up with it too, like wrapping a piece of string around and around your finger, restricting the blood flow to just one point on your body. 

Laurence can’t stop a moan at the thumb Damia uses to open her up more, hooking in alongside her tongue, nose surely covered in slick as well, because – Damia still has her uniform gloves on, and that entire image, matched with the feeling of it sends Laurence swirling. She’s gripping firmly onto the lapels of Damia’s coat just below her breasts, already angled further forward to get friction on her clit, so she grinds down further onto Damia’s tongue and leans the rest of the way forward, moving her hands, and the coat material in her grip, to brace against the bed. The delicious heat between her own folds and Damia’s expert mouth is incendiary, makes her want to fall asleep, as ridiculous as that sounds, just to soak further in, but the muscly plain of Damia’s belly is right there underneath the waist-high trousers. Laurence has the presence of mind, suddenly, to undo the clasp of them and shove them down as far as possible. Damia’s tongue pauses momentarily, excruciatingly, as she lifts her hips to eagerly get the trousers further down, but Laurence urges her back into motion with another roll of her hips and a moan. Laurence nips at the newly bared skin, gently at first, warming up, but everything is already tirelessly warm so it graduates exponentially into harder, sucking bites, below Damia’s belly button. 

“Damia,” Laurence breathes out, after a while. “I need – yes,” she says, when Damia shifts her mouth down to trace around her clit with her tongue, and moves the hand under her thigh to stroke two fingers inside of her. Laurence is so wet, still, she can’t imagine how wet the gloves are getting, how shiny and slick they’ll be when they’re pulled back out. Damia starts rubbing the flat of her tongue over her clit, and it’s just like every other time Damia’s eaten her out but it always feels like the first time it’s happening, always. 

Laurence can only rest her forehead on Damia’s stomach now, the feeling too intense to do more than hold her arms perfectly in place, let Damia fuck her fingers into her, tease at her clit with her lips and tongue, the easy slide of it all unbelievably pleasing. The gloved hand on top of her thigh moves over her hip and down her flank, and when it finally reaches Laurence’s chest, pinching lightly at her nipple, she gasps out a cry, tenses and further opens her thighs around Damia’s shoulders as she comes, pushing down mindlessly, eyes squeezing shut and hand clasping and unclasping around one of the gold uniform coat buttons.

It doesn’t take long to re-gather herself; she’s always been quicker to recover, to hold onto control. Damia’s gently soothing a hand on her hip when Laurence blinks her eyes open. 

“Okay?” asks Damia quietly. Laurence remembers the first time they had fucked, quick and dirty in an empty drawing room, and she’d thought Damia had been asking about the quality of the sex. Laurence knows by now that that’s not what she means by this, that she’s asking if Laurence is alright, if she needs more time to piece herself back together. It’s almost overwhelmingly sweet for what they’re doing, which only amounts to subtle smirks in the hallways and fucking in locked rooms. Laurence sometimes doesn’t have the emotional stamina for the question but she feels so good right now, both floaty and immensely heavy, like her body can’t make up its mind. 

Laurence doesn’t answer, initially, instead picking herself up and dropping onto her side on the bed, careful to lift her knee over Damia’s face. Then she says, upwards towards the rafters in the ceiling, “Touch yourself.”

Damia groans softly, like it’s just to herself, and Laurence hears the shift of fabric as she reaches down between her own legs. Laurence could leave it like this if she really wanted, but they both know that she’s not actually that selfish, so once she fully regains her breath, Laurence scoots down the bed, still facing the wrong way. She rests her head on Damia’s thick thigh and hooks one arm under it to join Damia’s hand in bringing her off. She seems close already, though, panting and arching her hips in aborted movements, legs restricted by her trousers.

When she’s really close, her face contorted in that euphorically pained expression, desperate for release, Damia grabs around and finds Laurence’s hand, clinging onto it like a lifeline as their fingers circle around her opening and clit. Rather than her usual chest-pulling groan, Damia only grits her teeth and makes a noise in her throat when she comes, throwing her head back and thrusting onto her hand. Laurence keeps her own hand on Damia’s folds as she comes back down, lazily stroking, but seeking no real end.

They’re still holding hands a couple minutes later, when Damia sits up with a sigh. In an incredible feat of flexibility, she bends further over to hold Laurence high at the sides of her chest, almost under her armpits, and places a lingering kiss on her collarbone. Laurence hopes she isn’t blushing too much by the time Damia pulls back.

“I should be going,” says Damia. She doesn’t say stupid things like ‘thank you,’ or ‘Your Highness,’ anymore, which helps to loosen something tangled and guilty deep in Laurence’s chest. “They’ll expect me in the barracks soon.”

Laurence nods and sits up herself. She watches Damia move around to gather her things, not that a lot of it left her body in the first place. 

“I –” Laurence starts, but then hesitates when Damia turns around with an open, expectant look. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” she says instead.

Damia smiles. “I’ll look for a reflection in the East study window,” she says. Laurence waits until she’s left the room to collapse back on top of her bed and grin as widely as ever.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at brigitttt (personal) and/or brigittttoo (side with writing), and newly on twitter @brigitttt_ . Comments are much appreciated, thank you for reading!


End file.
